


You Fight Like Something's Trying To Get Out Of You

by PrancingProngsy



Category: Leverage
Genre: Character studies, Drabbles, IT'S A MESS., LET MY SON BE HAPPY GODDAMMIT., Multi, one shots, when they won't let you tag eliot spencer/everyone, when you can't tag it right, who knows what this even is.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 05:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17543468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrancingProngsy/pseuds/PrancingProngsy
Summary: A series of drabbles, usually focusing on Eliot Spencer but with guest appearances now and again.





	1. Burma, 2004

**Author's Note:**

> So this whole fic came from that one line from the Gone Fishin' Job where Eliot said he'd run around in a forest before handcuffed to another man who made it easier because he was dead so. I dunno, have fun.

The forest was thick and quiet. Nestled in the trees, a concrete compound. Few windows, razor wire over the high fence that kept the wildlife from creeping in. It was by all definitions, a dire place in the middle of what should be a beautiful, relaxing, stretch of trees that made one remember why the Earth was so important in the first place. Moss covered trunks reach up into the sky, leaves stretched, a thick mugginess hung in the air despite the chilly breeze that tossed the branches high above the foliage beneath. For the moment, only the calls of birds and the buzzing of insects disturbed the forest. Until a siren went off in the compound, red light flashing, the harsh scream of the alarm penetrating the stillness. 

 

Eliot ran. He was breathing hard, hair barely tickling his cheekbones, wrist sore because he was definitely much faster than the man he was cuffed to. “Spencer stop! I can’t keep up!” That was apparent. Eliot was determined to get them both out of here, which was why he couldn’t stop. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner. Inexperienced. Or maybe Eliot was just too harsh on anyone these days. Kid tried. But that’s exactly what put them here. Eliot was pretty sure he’d fractured a rib crawling through the small space between the bars on their cell and the floor. His back was scratched to pieces and his wrist was swelling by the minute. His nose was busted days ago, a few fingers on his left hand bent out of shape. They had no clothes, no shoes, no nothing. These guys weren’t playing around. Eliot shouldn’t have let Vince slip up but he had. And now they were running, bare assed, through a compound where Eliot had only memorized half of the guard rotations. 

The concrete was cold on their feet, heels making a slapping sound as they ran. Eliot skidded to a stop and peered carefully around the corner. “You wanna get outta here alive or not, man? I can leave your ass behind.” He wouldn’t. But the threat seemed to shut Vincent up. Henry Vincent and Eliot Spencer. Good team. Until now. Eliot was sure one of them wasn’t making it out of this alive. the question was which one.

Heavy boots thundered against the floor and Eliot pulled them both back a little. “Two of ‘em.” Just their luck too. They’d need their shoes at the very least. Eliot would be damned before he started running around the forest without shoes, as much as he loved Die Hard, it really really wasn't worth it. The guards raced around the corner, but a set of elbows caught both of them in the face and sent them to the ground like sacks of potatoes. The pair of them bent over the bodies for a moment, compared shoe sizes, and finally the pulled on a set of trousers and a pair of boots. They couldn’t do anything about the shirts anyway. The one hand thing was annoying enough when desperately attempting to tie regulation knots in your boots as quickly as possible. They were moving again though, quiet, breathing hard through their mouths in a very carefully controlled fashion. No more slapping. That was good. 

If Eliot’s map was right, they were close. There were only a few ways out and this one was the hardest. But it was also the only one Eliot was confident they’d survive getting through. Eliot spun the knife he’d stolen, in his good hand and peered around the last bend. This was the home stretch. It looked like a kill box. Eliot always said that it was. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t make a break for it anyway. If they stayed here any longer, Eliot was sure they’d both be dead and completely unrecognizable in a ditch somewhere. 

Eliot turned to Vincent, who’s face was more swollen than Eliot’s. He was missing fingernails. And teeth. Eliot hated that they’d started with him. At least he hadn’t completely broken yet. Though Eliot was beginning to think that even if they didn’t, surviving this might. “Hey, you gotta follow my lead on this one, man. You hear me?” Vince nodded but Eliot got the impression he was only half listening. Eliot had more experience. Eliot should be making the moves. He only had a weapon he could use up close and he wasn’t sure his one arm would be able to do that for very long as it was. Vince had taken a pistol. Eliot was trying to be covert, but he supposed that reaching that razor wire lined fence wasn’t going to be easy, and that pistol might make it a little easier. They could almost feel the pressure on their backs, breathing on their shoulders. They were going to get thoroughly fucked if they didn’t get a move on. From the back and the front. Eliot turned to peer down the hallway. Three more steps and they’re through the main doors and can lock the rest of them in. For a while. Three more steps and they’re in clear view of the men out front, who had since multiplied. Eliot was almost convinced that the siren was some sort of duplicator, because the longer it went on, the more people he saw that he didn’t recognize from inside. They'd only been there two weeks, though, he supposed. Maybe it was impossible that he’d see everyone. 

“One.” A nod from Vince. Eliot centered himself. This was going to get ugly. “Two.” Another nod. Eliot didn’t even open his mouth before Vince was dragging them into the line of fire, Eliot's legs kicked out from under him with the force of his movement and he let out an angry yelp, only to have it swallowed by gunfire, roaring in his ears, familiar and pissed off. But so was Eliot. Very pissed off. and getting more pissed the longer Vince dragged him through the sticks and stones and thorns that lined their path. “You FUCKING IDIOT!” Eliot scrambled to his feet, knife finding a home in the nearest combatant’s stomach. Eliot used him for a shield, catching a few bullets and sending his boots skidding in the mulch until Vince finally reached the entrance. At least they’d had a little cover. a few of the covered trucks littering the path protected them a little bit. 

Vince shot Eliot a wide grin, wild, excited, victorious. His green eyes bright with delight, “We made it, man.” Eliot tossed the corpse to the gravel with a solid thud, hands rubbing on his pants, shoulders stooped eyes darting across the gate, “We made it.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Vince. That wasn’t the fucking plan, man. We're not even close t’ in the clear. Sit the fuck down.” Eliot's voice was angry, low, almost a growl. They had their backs almost quite literally up against the fence. All they had between them and the rapidly reloading men guarding the compound was a few bags of sand, and a water barrel turned on it’s side. They didn’t have time, as far as he was concerned, to fiddle with the fence and find a way through that wasn’t over the fence. Vince patted Eliot's thigh as he moved to crouch next to him. And then he made a gesture with his hand. He wanted Eliot's knife. With a grumble, Eliot passed it over, “You gimme that gun then.” The magazine was empty. Typical. Explained a few things though. 

Eliot peered around the barrel for a moment, taking stock of what they were going to be avoiding. Vincent tugged his arm, Eliot's wrist smarted and he opened his mouth to tell him to knock it off, and then he heard it. Vincent was cutting through the fence with his blade. Dangerous. Stupid. But better than going over razor wire and getting shot. 

There were threw in fifteen minutes. Eliot threw the gun in the opposite direction before moving through the space Vince had made for them. It wasn’t big. And it was very sharp. They sliced their shoulders open pushing through to the grass on the other side. Eliot kept crouched. Vincent stood straight up as if to challenge the fuckers to try and get him now. 

His body hit the ground next to Eliot, tugging his arm again, not even a minute later. Eliot hadn’t even heard the shot. Which meant snipers. Which meant Vincent was dead and it was sort of Eliot's fault. And he was now attached to a dead weight. And he was going to die. They were both going to die. Eliot spared the compound a withering glance backwards and moved to hoist Vincent up on his shoulders, swearing to himself, pushing back any shock, or resentment, or anger, or… Hell, even sadness, down down down into the depths of his stomach to be eaten away by the bile that resided there. “Fuck you, Vince,” was all he could really grind out, legs screaming now as they forced themselves up and away. And fast. Snipers were dangerous and Eliot wasn't looking to get shot like Vince had. 

The grass next to his stolen boots exploded and Eliot pressed on. He could hear shouting now, a rattling at the gate, more shouting. As soon as he hit the line of trees he knew he’d at least be able to hide himself a little better. Dogs were barking, the siren didn’t stop. Eliot didn’t have time for anything except running, toting a man who was nearly two of him, on his shoulders. 

Burma's forest swallowed him whole. 

Sometimes Eliot thought that she kept part of him when she spat him back out, soaked, carrying a dead body, wearing stolen clothes.


	2. It's No Secret (He Just Didn't Say Anything)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot doesn't like disappointing people. But here we are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set between that time Moreau pushed Hardison into the pool and Eliot neglected to save him and the team meeting to set up the actual heist part of the Big Bang job.

Hardison was staring daggers into his back the entire drive. Eliot didn’t say anything to cover up the sound of Hardison’s dripping suit, or the pointed stare that he’d fixed onto Eliot’s profile. This was too close. The red light they were currently stopped at took too long. Eliot couldn’t help himself but cut a glance over to where Hardison sat still glowering at him almost expectantly. Eliot flinched, or rather, everything in him told him to, but his knuckles just turned white as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. There were going to be questions. Eliot hated that his conscience settled on his shoulders so heavily, made him look as guilty as he felt when he turned his attention to the road again. “What?” a sort of demand for Hardison to say something. Anything at this point would be better than the overly tense silence that had settled between them, only accentuated by the loud clicking of his turn signal. 

“I'm gonna tell them, Eliot. I'm gonna tell them what you did.” Eliot spared him another glance. Of course he was. Hardison was a better man than him, one of the best men he knew, actually. They deserved to know, they deserved to know what he’d done but he… Didn't want to tell them. What mattered was that they’d made it in, and Hardison had only almost died. That, he knew, was going to bite him in the ass again somewhere down the line, how he almost let Hardison die for Damien Moreau. Eliot could still feel those green eyes boring holes into him, making his skin crawl, like Damien could see inside of him, even after all this time. He mentally shuddered. 

Eliot wanted to say that he’d told them so. That Moreau was too big, that they needed more time to prep this, that maybe… He could do something if he got in there right. That he could keep all of this from coming down on their heads. He could feel just how close he was to losing all of this. They didn’t know jack shit about Damien Moreau. And they hadn’t bothered to ask. Eliot had felt like he’d dropped enough hints to warrant questioning. Only, Nate didn’t care, or didn’t want to see it or…. Eliot's jaw clenched, eyes staring straight ahead again, like he wanted to set the whole road on fire, and the both of them with it. This was almost entirely his fault.

“Do what you gotta, man.” They were going to find out anyway. Moreau wouldn’t let him keep it a secret even if he wanted to. This, he thought, this animosity, this distrust, was worse than them knowing about what he’d done with Moreau, for Moreau. He'd broken Hardison's trust in all sorts of ways and it made his stomach twist all up into knots. When did he get so… Soft? When did it start to matter so much what Hardison and Parker and Nate and Sophie thought about him, why did it matter that they looked at him a certain way and probably wouldn’t ever look at him like that again? “I'll pack it in and get the hell outta here after this if that’s what you want. I did what I had to.” And he wanted to believe it as much as he wanted Hardison to believe it, but his words felt hollow in his mouth and hung in the air between them all crooked and tired.


	3. A Snake in the Grass; A Spider's Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a vague idea of what I personally think that Eliot went through when under Damien Moreau's employ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some serious trigger warnings here. For abuse of all flavors, and some like. Gorey stuff, I guess. I dunno, I'm bad at this. Anyway proceed with caution. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I made Eliot Jacob Stone's twin brother? So. If you watch The Librarians, there's a fun thing for you.

**Bubrovnik, Croatia; 1998**  
It was twilight. The sun barely setting beneath the horizon, waves from the sea occasionally obscuring what was left of it. Eliot Spencer, young, hair cropped close to the scalp, nursed a glass of something that was trying very hard to be whiskey in the corner of a dimly lit bar. The smell of the ocean, fishy and salty, and just a little bit like freedom, clung to his nostrils and helped mask the burn of what Eliot was almost sure was lighter fluid. A dead man. That's who he was supposed to be. His last mission with the special forces had him in Africa. Training the Mali army. Shoulders still stung, even though the wound was mostly healed. Just because he was supposed to be training didn’t mean he didn’t see combat. They'd discharged him with a purple heart. And that particular medal sat in front of him, staring at him as he finished his drink and ordered himself another one. 

He hated that he had a cane. And the way he gripped the handle of it as he tried to ease himself gently out of the back booth, facing both doors, knuckles white, brow set, told the whole world that he’d just as soon beat somebody with it as he would walk on it. As soon as they’d handed him his papers… Eliot disappeared. He'd sent a letter to his father, missing in action, it said. He would not be returning to Oklahoma. Instead… Croatia. Where the salt water could spray his face as he leaned heavily on the guardrail of the porch that looked out over the beach. Croatia, where everything started. The waves kissed the shore and disappeared as darkness settled over the coast. Eliot's cane rested beside him, the damp wood a much better support, bad knee relaxed as he nearly draped himself over the rail to trail his fingers in the sand. Instead, he looked over the ocean, wanting so very badly not to feel like a small rowboat in the big open sea, wondering what the fuck a wounded man like him was going to be doing for the rest of his life, when the only thing he’d been good at for the past seven years was running and hurting people with his hands and a variety of other weapons. 

Perching a cigarette between his lips, Eliot Spencer let out a long sigh. Esau Stone, missing in action, wounded veteran, stood where he had moments before. He carded his fingers through what little hair he had before fumbling with his lighter. Only he needn’t bother. Eliot's ears pricked the moment someone set foot on the porch. Esau disappeared. Eliot was there. Just Eliot. The man seemed to notice the way Eliot's shoulders tensed, even the one that was still healing, the way he turned his head just a little to get his ears a little closer to what was happening. he stopped. eliot’s fingers gripped at the rail of the porch before he turned a little bit more to get his eyes on him. 

Tall. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Straight nose. And a smile like a cheshire cat, glinting in the starlight. Eliot's free hand, injured shoulder and all, had moved to the knife on his belt. The well dressed man in the doorway of the bar held his hands up, what Eliot assumed was supposed to be a soothing gesture, the kind people made when they were surrendering. 

“There is no need for that, I assure you, friend.” his voice was smooth, gentle, and very Croatian. Eliot wanted to relax, but he couldn’t. Not with the near predatory gaze with which the man was staring at him. The hands lowered, smoothing out the front of his suit before he took a cautious step forward. Eliot didn’t move. Not yet. “I am not here to harm you or any of that nonsense. You are Eliot Spencer, yes?” 

The pause was long enough that the other man could assume that he’d been correct. Eliot wet his lips and finally offered a nod. Curt. Short. And to the point. Yes. He was Eliot Spencer. The man reached into his pockets and produced a small book of matches, offering to strike one for Eliot. He said nothing. Neither of them did. The silence had settled back on the porch, but this time it was heavier. Eliot could feel the energy in the air, the way it made the hairs on his arms stand on end, the way it made his spine tingle. He knew. Something was about to happen. And when the flame lit the end of his cigarette and the long fingered man blew out the match and settled much more comfortably than he should have next to him, Eliot knew. This man, was going to change his life. 

In the quickly growing darkness, Eliot's bright blue eyes met the dark, tinged green ones of the much taller man beside him. That dimpled smile was back, wide and damn near excited. And he spoke again. “My name is Damien Moreau, and my sources tell me that you are looking for… Something.” That last word resonated in Eliot's chest in a way he wished that it didn’t. He blinked slowly, as if telling Damien Moreau that he was at least interested in what he had to say. “It just so happens that I might have just the thing for you. You see the position just opened up, and… Well it feels almost like fate, doesn’t it, Eliot?” and that was the moment that Eliot Spencer knew he was completely and utterly fucked. Because a small smile tugged aggressively at the corners of his lips until it won, and through a plume of smoke sent the ocean’s way, he finally replied, 

“Oh I'm listening, Mr. Moreau.” 

...

**Three Months Later**

Damien Moreau treated the armchair like it was his throne. His legs were crossed over one another, fingers laced together in front of him, elbows delicately perched on the arms of the chair as he surveyed his… Subjects. Eliot Spencer stood beside him, hovering just behind the right arm of the chair, fingers clasped behind his back. The air was tense, but that smile on Damien's lips told eliot that something fun was about to happen. The seated man craned his neck to catch Eliot's eyes, that wide smile on his lips and he gestured with his head towards their current clients, “Perhaps you’d like to show them what happens when people try to strong arm me, Eliot.”

The chuckle was near instantaneous, “Of course, Mr. Moreau,” and Eliot moved with purpose and ease around the table to take their agitated client’s arm. With a solid crack that resonated in the office, Eliot twisted the damn thing back until the man’s fingers twitched. And Damien Moreau clapped his hands a few times until Eliot shoved the man forward as if to tell him that wasn’t even half of the pain he could inflict. 

“Thank you, Eliot.” 

...

**Belgrade, Serbia; 2000**  
Long fingers trailed up his spine, warm through his shirt, and for a moment, eliot could forget the sounds of public unrest on the streets below his hotel room. Damien Moreau wore that smile he wore when he was particularly pleased. Like a cat who’d just figured out how to get the cream, and however much of it he wanted, too. “Enjoying the view, Eliot?” and truth be told, he was. Belgrade was a vast city. Full of… Everything. But that wasn’t why Damien Moreau was here, “Are you going to watch the election with me?” and Eliot turned his head just a little so he could catch the way the sun cast shadows on the smooth face of his employer. 

“I was thinkin’ about… Trying that bakery across the street from us,” And Damien said nothing. At least not at first. His lips quirked downwards just a little, brow hardening at the thought of Eliot disappearing for a few moments. The enforcer was quiet too, watching the change of expression, “Or– - I don't know. That's alright. I’ll just…” Not do that. And stay here with Damien so they could watch what kinds of things those long fingers had done for the right price. This election was going to be… Interesting to say the least. Damien's smile returned, gentler this time, sweeter, almost. 

“We'll get room service,” came the response, and the fingers on Eliot's spine moved to his shoulder and then back down to his waist for a gentle pat. Damien moved, fingers slipping into his pockets, back towards the center of their lavish room, leaving Eliot by the window for now, the smells of fresh bread wafting in through the window. “I'll make you a deal, Eliot Spencer.” That caught Eliot's attention. He lifted an eyebrow as he fixed Moreau with a cool, curious stare, “You sit with me, watch the election… We'll celebrate afterwards,” but the tone Damien had taken suggested a certain kind of way of celebrating and that smile of Eliot's, just as twisted and eager as Moreau's, slipped onto his lips. 

Without another word, Eliot moved to ease the door that led into the hallway closed. Damien didn’t much care for closing doors. Nor did he care for knocking, Eliot was beginning to discover. Before he could turn around again, Damien's long fingers were in his hair and his lips on his ear, voice low and near teasing, “You need a hair cut, Eliot,” and the way he said it sent shivers down Eliot's spine. “You could have left the door open, you know,” and the man was gone again, seated on the couch with the television remote in his hand and a devious glint in his eyes, “No one is going to say anything to the likes of you or I. Everyone knows what you can do, Eliot. What your hands can do…” Eliot's breath caught in his throat. 

It was an invitation to open the door again, let the whole hotel see what they were doing. Eliot suspected it was a power trip for Damien, knowing that no one could touch him. Not when Eliot was present in any case. Eliot wet his lips and moved sit beside Damien on the upholstered couch, jeans extra dark on the light fabric. They didn’t call it the white city for nothing. Damien cocked his head to the side just a little and raised an eyebrow in Eliot's direction, lips quirking up just a little, “You know… I would much rather you be on your knees, Eliot.” it almost sounded like a suggestion, but Eliot knew better by now, and that smile on his lips grew as he slid onto the white plush rug artfully placed in the center of their suite. 

Eliot's calloused fingers moved up the length of his thighs, Moreau's legs parting for him as if inviting him in again. He knew how to play the game by now. He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his white button up and glanced up at Damien's face from where he sat. One hand settled on the man’s belt, the other resting lightly on his thigh. Eliot's smile widened just a little when their eyes met and Damien's fingers found his hair again, blunt nails gently scratching at his scalp almost encouragingly. 

“Let's see if you’ve gotten any better with that mouth of yours, Eliot,” There was a pause as his belt clinked open and the zipper to his dress pants was undone. “Oh, and Eliot…” there was another pause. Eliot glanced up again and Damien's fingers found his chin. “If this does not go according to plan, this little election… I trust you’ll take care of it? We have a deal, after all,” and Damien Moreau did not like to be disappointed. The fingers on Eliot's chin moved to caress his cheek, and Eliot's smile only widened. 

“Whatever it takes, Damien.” 

...

**Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia 2001**  
Eliot's arms were crossed over his chest, looking as intimidating as possible. Damien poured himself a drink. Eliot had a beer on the table that was remaining untouched for now. Chapman stood by the door, well dressed, over eager, hands on a gun on his belt. They'd nearly finished unloading their current shipment. Eliot could smell unrest in the air, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Nor did he want to. His own fingers flexed where they were crossed, and he glanced at Moreau, asking for permission. The taller man shook his head and moved to take his seat, glass in hand, clearly very unimpressed with the guns being trained on him. “We helped ferry these to you, you know. In some places that would earn a little respect for the sheer amount of power I have,” he sipped his glass near pointedly. Nobody moved. Nobody dared to. Eliot shifted. “Eliot, did you bring that knife I gave you?” The enforcer’s lips quirked up and a stiff nod followed that particular line of questioning. Eliot always had it on him. One of the few signs of affection he ever got from the man seated just behind him. “Why don’t you show it to me?”

So. This was where they were going. Eliot's smile widened. He moved, fingers slipping into his pocket to pull the knife out. It wasn’t large or very intimidating on it’s own, but as soon as Eliot flipped the damn thing open, wood handles and silver finish glinting in the noon sun, the hostiles froze. There were four of them. Each and every one of them had a gun trained on Moreau. Their guns. The guns they had given to these people in this country, or rather, four people in this country to do what they pleased with them. The money was good, the lack of ability to trace it back to Moreau was even more of a reason to actually pull this job. But everyone in their right mind knew that dealing with Damien Moreau meant dealing with Eliot Spencer. Eliot Spencer, the man who could use a knife like it was an art form, who took ears as warning signs for people that didn’t pay debts, for people that told Damien Moreau no. Eliot glanced at Moreau, that excited glimmer in his eyes as he did so. And this time… This time Damien nodded. 

Blood stained the cobblestones by the time Eliot was finished and the air stunk of gunpowder. Three men to make an example. This last one had to get rid of the merchandise and the bodies on his own. If they could even be called bodies anymore. Eliot was very thorough. He wiped his blade clean on the trousers of one of the dead men and closed the butterfly knife with a clink before he calmly made his way back to Moreau's side. He'd finished his drink by now and had simply watched Eliot do his work. 

“I trust we will no longer be having any issues, hmn?” The last man had pissed himself the second Eliot had felled the first body. He was trembling, eyes never leaving Eliot's blood speckled face, stains on his dress shirt, the way his shoes had left prints as he made his way back to his boss. The man said nothing. He nodded, enthusiastically. And Damien considered that good enough. He rose, and there was just a hint of bitterness in his voice when he stooped to breathe against the shell of Eliot's ear, “you could have been a bit neater, Spencer.” 

...

**Mali, Africa; 2002**  
Eliot Spencer watched the helicopter take off without hesitation. And he hated that it stung. He hated that he could see Moreau's silhouette in the window and he didn’t seem the least bit concerned that Eliot was left behind. Again. Eliot hated that it wasn’t the first time this had happened. He hated that the suit he wore was itchy and constraining and he hated that now, more than ever, he wished he had something more than what Moreau had given him. Because he was going to die here. He could feel it. He should have never come back here. As far as Eliot was concerned, this place was cursed. He was cursed. And the worst part of bleeding out into the African grasses all by himself… The worst part was… He'd be crawling back to Moreau just as soon as he figured out how. because Eliot couldn’t help himself. 

...

**New York, New York; 2003**  
Moreau looked over the footage thoughtfully for a moment. Eliot fought the shaking of his hands by clasping them behind his back. He knew what he was going to do. Damien Moreau looked up at him, eyes dark, nearing angry. He looked the same, to Eliot. Five years hadn’t done much of anything except allowed him to buy more expensive suits. And bathrobes. He wasn’t covered in scars like Eliot was. And Eliot didn’t want to be cowed. Not this time. Damien's eyes flicked back to the screen and he watched as Eliot carried out the worst order he’d ever given the man. “You're not getting soft on me, are you, Eliot?” and the way he said it was almost like a song. Damien Moreau didn’t even have to look at him to know the answer. And as the Eliot on the screen took that child’s life, and looked at his blood covered hands, Eliot let his eyes fall closed for a moment. Because maybe he was going soft. But that girl looked a lot like his sister had and that girl didn’t deserve to die. And when he thought about it, a lot of the people Eliot had killed hadn’t deserved to die. And that blood on his hands, now rubbed raw and spotless, would never actually be cleaned off. His mouth was dry and he fixed Moreau with a hard look. 

He was leaving. Everyone could tell. Just by the way his shoulders were squared and the way he fixed Damien with that look, like he wanted to rip him to pieces, or burn him to the ground, or… Something… Moreau lifted an eyebrow as he settled back in his chair, fingers curled around a glass, without a care in the world. “You _are_ getting soft on me.” A statement. Not a question this time, “Where will you go, Mr. Spencer, where I will not find you?” A test. Eliot's hands weren’t shaking anymore. That was a threat. He folded his arms over his chest and looked Damien Moreau right in the eyes, “Oh you can find me, Moreau. You're just not gonna be touchin’ me,” because Damien Moreau was just a man. And he was only as good as his enforcers. Damien moreau was a very well connected, well funded man. And he was losing his best enforcer. Eliot wet his lips and took a challenging step forward, “You come after me, you come after my family, I’m burning this whole fuckin’ thing to the ground, Damien. And you know I don’t bluff.” Sure Eliot didn’t have any real contingencies lined up. But he was his own contingency. 

Moreau scoffed, one hand gesturing to the sky, the other clutching his drink with white knuckles like he wasn’t just a little bit afraid that his favorite toy might break him in half right now. Eliot Spencer didn’t bluff. But… Nobody walked away from Damien Moreau without consequences, “You've put me in a rough spot, Eliot.” But then… Wasn't that the point? Eliot said nothing. Damien was quiet for a moment and for a brief second Eliot thought that perhaps he might see a little remorse in his eyes. It vanished before he could verify. “Where will you go first, Eliot?”

The hollowed out bits of him reminded him that this was exactly where he’d been when Moreau found him. At least mentally. Lost. Adrift. Without direction. He spoke before the thought could fully form. “Myanmar.” He could find something out there, he was sure. Unrest was brewing, there was a war happening of some kind, as far as he knew. But it was time. Because he didn’t recognize his insides anymore. And when he looked in the mirror… He didn’t know who he was looking at. His hair was tickling his ears now and Eliot thought that maybe… He could smell change somewhere. Wafting in through the pool house window, diluting the chlorine. Damien Moreau leaned against the poolside table thoughtfully for a moment, thinking it over. He could go after Eliot's dad, and Jake, and his sister (who apparently was getting ready to have her first child), and his grandmother. But all Moreau was picturing was Eliot Spencer sneaking into his room at night and putting that very pretty knife to his throat and slicing without a second thought. 

Damien blinked and took a long sip of his scotch before he gestured for the guards near the doors to stand down. “Alright, Mr. Spencer. I believe you. Perhaps you feel you’ve out grown me. Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind and kill you on the spot for trying to leave,” and truth be told, Eliot was surprised that he hadn’t. Perhaps there was some small part of Damien Moreau that actually held genuine affection for him. It was a long shot. But there was hope. Eliot lingered for just a moment more, as if expecting Damien Moreau to turn on him like he had the man Eliot had replaced. But he didn’t. And Eliot unfolded his arms. He turned on his heel and made towards the door and nobody moved to stop him, and the anxious coil in his stomach wound tighter and tighter until the sun hit his face and the fresh air filled his lungs. The fight died in his fists, and Eliot took a deep breath as the door closed behind him. He was a very lucky man. 

“What’s next?” he mused to himself for a moment, rubbing at his face. “Myanmar.” that was what was next. He glanced back towards the door one last time before giving his shoulders a shake. Myanmar.


End file.
